THE  FOOL  OF 
THE  WORLD  ^ 


OTHER  POEMS  ^ 
^  ARTHUR  SYMONS 


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THE  FOOL  OF  THE  WORLD 
OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  FOOL  OF  THE  WORLD 

OTHER  POEMS. 

BY  ARTHUR  SYMONS. 


JOHN  LANE  COMPANY, 

67   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 

MDCCCCVII 


PRINTED    IN   ENGLAND 


I.  The  Fool  of  the  World  :   A  Morality 
•  p.  I. 


II.  Meditations : 


I.  Hymn     to     Energy: 

Giorgione  at  Castel- 
franco  :  p.  15. 
Wasted  Beauty :  p.  16. 
Unstable  Pride:  p.  17. 
Time  and  Beauty : 
p.  18. 


6.  Time   and    Memory 
p.  19. 

7.  The  Passing :  p.  20. 

8.  Roman     Meditation 
p.  21. 

9.  Indian      Meditation 
p.  22. 

10.   Night :  p.  23. 


III.  Amends  to  Nature 

1.  Amends    to    Nature  : 

p.  27- 

2.  Songs     of     Poltescoe 
Valley  :  p.  28. 

3.  To  a  Sea-GuU  :  p-  35. 

4.  Cornish  Wind  :  p.  2^. 

5.  By  Loe  Pool:  p.  37. 

6.  Harvest  Moon:  p.  38. 

7.  Villa  Borghese:  p.  39. 

8 .  Stratford  -  on  -  Avon : 
p.  40. 

9.  Felpham  :  p.  41. 

10.  The  Gardener  :  p.  43. 

11.  Sea  Twilight :  p.  44. 


12. 

13- 

14. 

15- 


Twilight  Song  :  p.  45. 
Rome  :  p.  46. 
London  :  p.  47. 
Autumn  :   p.  48. 

in     Spring  : 


16.  Winter 
p.  49. 

Night  in  the  Valley  : 
p.  50.  ^ 

Wind  in  the  Valley  : 
p.  51. 

Wind  at  Night  :  p.  52, 
The  Crying  of  the 
Earth  :  ^2- 


n- 


19. 
20. 


IV.  Guests  : 

1.  The  Guests  :  p.  57. 

2.  A  Triptych  : 

1.  S.  Apollinare  in 
Classe:  Ravenna: 
p.  58. 

2.  IsottatotheRose: 
Rimini  :  p.  59. 

3.  The    Campo 
Santo:  Pisa:  p.6 1. 

3.  Giovanni  Malatesta  at 
Rimini:  p.  62. 

4.  Otho  and  Poppaea  :  a 
Dramatic  Scene  :  p.  64. 

5.  Prologue  for  a  Modern 
Painter  :  p.  69. 

6.  For     a     Picture      ot 
Rossetti :  p.  70. 

7.  A  Profile:  p.  71. 


8.  Emily  Bronte  :  p.  72. 

9.  The     Rope  -  Maker  : 

P-  73- 

10.  The    Chopin    Player: 

p.  74. 

1 1.  The     Sick     Man    to 
Health  :  p.  75. 

12.  The  Turning  Dervish : 

P-  77- 

13.  The  Armenian  Dancer: 

p.  79. 

14.  The    Andante    of 
Snakes  :  p.  81. 

15.  Song    of  the   Sirens: 
p.  82. 

16.  The    Lovers    of    the 
Wind  :   p.  83. 

17.  Hymn  to  Fire:  p.  84. 


V.   Variations  on  an  Old  Tune  : 


1.  Apology  :  p.  87. 

2.  Arab    Love  -  Song  : 
p.  88. 

3.  Song  :  after  Herrick. 
p.  89. 

4.  Song  :  p.  90. 

5.  The    Heart's    Toys : 
p.  91. 

VI.  Mary  in  Bethlehem: 


6.  Two    Love-Songs  : 
p.  92. 

7.  Grey  Twilight :  p.  94. 

8.  The  Caged  Bird:  p.  96. 

9.  An  Epilogue  to  Love  : 
p.  97. 

10.  A  Song  Against  Love: 
p.  107. 

A  Nativity:  p.  109. 


VI 


I. 

THE  FOOL  OF  THE  WORLD  : 

A  MORALITY. 

TO  AMY  SAWYER. 


The  Fool  of  the  World. 

The  Man.  The  Worm. 

Death,  as  the  Fool.  Youth. 

The  Spade.  Middle  Age. 

The  Coffin.  Old  Age. 

The  Scene  represents  a  dark  wood^  in  which  a  Man^ 
dressed  as  a  Pilgrim,  is  discovered  standing. 

The  Man. 

This  is  the  wood,  and,  my  heart  saith, 

This  is  the  sanctuary  of  Death. 

I  am  afraid :  am  I  not  here 

To  face  and  question  with  my  fear  ? 

Yet,  if  I  ask  and  Death  reply, 

How  should  I  bear  it  ?  how  should  I 

Live,  knowing  what  it  is  to  die  ? 

This  life  is  evil,  and  must  end  : 

But  what  if  Death  should  be  our  friend  ? 

This  life  is  full  of  weariness 

And  ignorance  and  blind  distress, 

And  it  may  be  that  when  man  dies 

Death,  being  altogether  wise, 

Shall  take  the  darkness  from  his  eyes. 

But  no,  he  cannot  be  our  friend : 
This  life  is  evil,  and  must  end 
In  evil ;  every  man  that  lives 
Lives  but  the  limit  that  Death  gives, 


And  Death  has  seen  all  beauty  pass, 
And  glory,  as  the  flower  of  grass, 
And  nothing  is  that  ever  was. 

This  life  is  evil,  and  must  end, 

Alas  !  and  who  shall  be  our  friend  ? 

Though  we  have  seen  him  through  our  fears 

An  old  lean  crooked  man  of  years. 

Death's  wisdom  must  in  heaven  make  dim 

The  brightest  of  the  Seraphim  : 

I  will  kneel  down  and  pray  to  him. 

[i/<?  kneels  down.  Death  enters  as  a  woman, 
masked^  with  a  fooCs  cap  on  which  are  seven 
bells,  and  a  staff  of  seven  bells  in  her  hand. 

Death. 

Come  hither,  all  ye  that  draw  breath : 

What  would  ye  of  me  ?  I  am  Death. 

The  Man  [rising  to  his  feet']. 

0  foolish  woman,  capped  and  masked, 
Not  for  your  cap  and  bells  I  asked  : 
They  make  a  loud  and  merry  din, 
But  I  was  calling  Wisdom  in. 

Death  [shaking  the  bells']. 

1  am  the  Fool  of  the  World.     Come,  follow  ; 
As  your  hopes  are  my  bells  hollow. 

As  my  cap  are  your  thoughts  vain ; 
I  come  and  go  and  come  again, 
Singing  and  dancing,  and  with  mirth 
Lead  the  dance  of  fools  on  earth 
4 


To  the  tune  of  my  seven  bells : 
Whither  ?  none  returning  tells  ; 
The  seven  bells  sing  to  them  :  how  soon 
They  fall  asleep  to  the  cradle-tune  ! 

The  Man. 

What  is  this  folly  of  lewd  breath  ? 

Who  shall  be  wise  if  this  be  Death  ? 

Death  [^raising  the  staff  of  bells  solemnly^  like  a  sceptre^. 

I,  of  all  proud  frail  mortal  things, 

Choose  for  my  own  the  greatest  kings, 

The  bravest  captains,  the  most  wise 

Doctors,  the  craftiest  lords  of  lies. 

The  fairest  women  ;  and  all  these 

Praise  me,  and  kneel  about  my  knees ; 

The  glories  of  the  world  bow  down 

When  the  bells  chatter  in  my  crown. 

I  am  the  Fool  of  the  World,  I  must 

Lead  the  fools'  dance  home  to  the  dust. 

The  Man. 

If  this  be  Death  indeed  that  saith 
Brave  sayings  in  the  name  of  Death, 
O  Death,  take  off  from  us  the  dread 
Of  the  three  makers  of  our  bed  : 
The  Spade,  the  Coffin  strait  and  low, 
The  Worm  that  is  our  bed-fellow. 

Death. 

O  men  that  know  me  not,  afraid 

Of  Worm,  of  Coffin,  and  of  Spade, 


I  will  call  in  my  labourers 

That  they  may  speak  against  your  fears. 

[Death  beckons  with  her  staff  of  bells ^  and  one 
enterSy  in  mean  attire^  bearing  a  spade. 

The  Man. 

0  what  is  this  that  comes  arrayed 
In  dusty  clothes,  and  holds  a  spade  ? 

The  Spade. 

1  am  the  builder  of  the  house 
Which  Death  to  every  guest  allows  ; 
I  dig  the  sure  foundations  deep 

In  the  stony  soil  of  sleep  ; 

There  is  no  noise  about  the  doors, 

No  noise  upon  the  ancient  floors, 

Only  the  graveworm's  dusty  feet 

Walk  softly  to  and  fro  in  it. 

[Death  beckons  with    her  staff  of  bells y  and  one 
enterSy  in  black  clothes^  bearing  a  coffin. 

The  Man. 

0  who  is  this  that  bears,  alack, 
So  strait  a  bed  upon  his  back  ? 

The  Coffin. 

1  am  the  only  bed  that  gives 

Sleep  without  dreams  to  all  that  lives, 
An  unawakening  sleep  to  all ; 
Sleep  sweetly  till  you  hear  the  call : 
6 


It  may  be  one  shall  bid  you  rise, 
At  cock-crow,  with  untroubled  eyes. 

[Death  beckons  with  her  staff  of  hells^  and  one 
*  enter s^  hooded  and  cloaked  in  rust-coloured  clothes. 

The  Man. 

What  is  this  thing  of  fearful  form 

That  wears  the  livery  of  the  worm  ? 

The  Worm. 

I  am  the  Worm  :  have  I  not  fed 
Sweetly  upon  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
Sweetly  on  bones  that  have  been  kings  ? 
No  tenderer  is  the  flesh  that  clings 
About  their  bones  than  this  that  may 
Wrap  up  a  beggar  turned  to  clav. 
Beauty  is  the  one  morsel  worth 
The  biting  of  the  worm  of  earth  ; 
Surely  the  flesh  of  Helen  made 
A  most  sweet  morsel :  therein  stayed 
The  sap  that  moved  her  flesh  to  fault, 
For  it  was  seasoned  with  pure  salt. 

The  Man. 

Though  sexton  Spade  and  Coffin  bed 

Be  gentle  to  us,  being  dead, 

Though,  like  dead  Helen,  in  the  ground 

We  with  our  bed-fellow  sleep  sound, 

O  Death,  we  know  not  if  these  know 

The  whole  long  way  we  have  to  go. 


Death. 

0  men  that  know  me  not,  and  dread 
Sleep,  and  the  dreams  about  the  bed, 

1  will  call  in  my  guests,  that  wait 
To  speak  with  you,  without  the  gate  : 
Surely  of  them  ye  shall  hear  truth. 

[Death  shakes  her  bells ^  and  beckons  to  three 
figures^  differently  dressed^  of  whom  one  is  youngs 
one  of  middle  age^  and  one  old. 

Youth. 

We  three,  the  guests  of  Death,  are  Youth, 

And  Middle  Age,  and  Age.     Bow  down. 

Old  men,  before  a  zany's  crown. 

For  ye  have  lived  ;  but  I,  being  young, 

And  scarce  a  shadow's  length  among 

The  morning  roses  of  the  May, 

Met  this  false  wanton  on  the  way 

And  flew  to  her  accursed  lure ; 

Now,  for  all  pleasure,  I  endure 

Earth,  and  the  blind  and  stagnant  night, 

And,  for  most  pain,  remember  light. 

Death  [lowering  the  staff  of  bells']. 

What  is  this  spirit  of  quenchless  flame 

That  cries  against  my  mercy's  name  ^ 

\_To  Middle  Age.]     Speak,  and  speak  truth. 

Middle  Age. 

The  noon  was  high. 

And  the  sun  steadfast  in  the  sky, 

And  all  the  day's  strong  middle  heat 

8 


Weighed  on  me,  and  I  felt  my  feet 
A  little  weary  of  the  crowd, 
When  the  seven  bells  sang  aloud  ; 
My  heart  was  full  of  peace,  my  life 
Was  evil,  and  a  place  of  strife  ; 
I  followed,  I  am  here,  I  had 
Neither  a  sorry  heart  nor  glad. 

Death. 

Shall  but  one  spirit,  soothed  with  dust. 
Rise,  and  remember  to  be  just  ? 
Speak,  and  speak  truth,  spirit  of  Age. 

Old  Age. 

I  tottered  on  my  pilgrimage. 

My  dragging  feet  could  hardly  tread 

The  steep  and  stony  road  that  led 

By  such  hard  ways  to  some  dim  end 

I  had  forgotten,  when  this  friend 

Crooked  a  kind  arm  under  my  arm. 

And  I  was  there  ;  and  I  was  warm, 

And  young,  and  no  more  scant  of  breath  : 

I  praise  the  mercy  of  good  Death. 

The  Man. 

O  Death,  these  voices,  though  they  speak, 
>  What  can  they  tell  us  that  we  seek  ? 
Are  not  these  voices  mortal  still 
That  utter  the  unforgotten  will 
Of  mortal  flesh,  and  not  yet  have 
Found  out  the  wisdom  of  the  grave  ? 
These,  though  the  body  they  forget, 
9 


Speak  with  the  body's  voices  yet 

A  mortal  speech  ;  but  who  of  ye 

Shall  speak  out  of  eternity  ? 

Only  Death  knows,  only  Death  can 

Speak  the  whole  truth  of  death  to  man. 

O  Death,  Death  kind  and  piteous, 

Have  pity,  and  tell  the  truth  to  us  ! 

Death  [rising']. 

Shall  the  seven  bells  of  folly  know 

Pity,  that  lead  me  where  I  go  ? 

[S/ie  throws  down  the  staff  of  hells. 
Have  pity,  all  ye  that  draw  breath, 
O  men,  have  pity  upon  Death. 
The  bells  that  weigh  about  my  brows, 
And  ring  all  flesh  into  my  house, 
Are  a  fool's  witless  bells ; 

\She  throws  down  the  cap  of  hells. 

I  lead 
The  dance  of  fools,  a  fool  indeed ; 
And  my  hands  gather  where  they  find, 
For  I  am  Death,  and  I  am  blind. 

[^he  takes  off  the  mask  and  falls  on  her  knees. 


lO 


II. 

MEDITATIONS. 


Hymn  to  Energy. 

God  is  ;  and  because  life  omnipotent 
Gives  birth  to  life,  or  of  itself  must  die, 
The  suicide  of  its  own  energy, 
God,  of  his  unconsuming  element. 
Remakes  the  world,  and  patiently  renews 
Sap  in  the  grass  and  ardour  in  the  wind, 
Morning  and  evening  dews, 
And  tireless  light  and  the  untiring  mind. 

God  makes  things  evil  and  things  good  ;  he  makes 

Evil  as  good,  with  an  unchoosing  care. 

Nor  sets  a  brighter  jewel  in  the  air 

Than  on  the  broidered  liveries  of  his  snakes. 

Man,  make  thy  world  thine  own  creation  ;  strive. 

Colour  thy  sky,  and  the  earth  under  thee. 

Because  thou  art  alive ; 

Be  glad,  for  thou  hast  nothing  but  to  be. 

Let  every  man  be  artist  of  his  days, 

And  carve  into  his  life  his  own  caprice  ; 

And,  as  the  supreme  Artist  does  not  cease 

Labouring  always  in  his  starry  ways. 

Work  without  pause,  gladly,  and  ask  no  man 

If  this  be  right  or  wrong ;  man  has  to  do 

One  thing,  the  thing  he  can : 

Work  without  fear,  and  to  thyself  be  true. 

Thou  art,  as  God  is ;  and  as  God  outflows, 
Weaving  his  essence  into  forms  of  life, 
13 


And,  out  of  some  perfection's  lovely  strife. 
Marries  the  rose's  odour  with  the  rose, 
So  must  thou  of  thy  heavenly  human  state. 
And  of  thy  formless  strife  and  suffering, 
Thyself  thyself  create 
Into  the  image  of  a  perfect  thing. 


H 


Giorgione  at  Gas tel franco. 

I  went  to  seek  a  many-coloured  soul, 

But  here  all  colours  burn  into  one  white 

And  are  invisible  as  light ; 

I  sought  the  parts,  and  I  have  found  the  whole 

in  this  calm,  secretless, 

Passionate,  meditative,  and  austere 

Refusal  of  perfection  to  appear 

More  like  perfection,  clothed  in  some  excess. 


15 


Wasted  Beauty. 


This  beauty  is  vain,  this,  born  to  be  wasted. 

Poured  on  the  ground  like  water,  spilled,  and  by  no  man 

tasted ; 
This,  born  to  be  loved,  unloved  shall  remain 
Till  in  white  dust  the  lovely  bones  whiten  again  ; 
Till,  dust  in  white  dust,  this  high  heart  shall  be  still. 
It  shall  desire  and  its  labour  be  lost,  it  shall  not  have  its 

will ; 
You,  armies  had  met,  once,  if  you  turned  your  head  : 
Shall  there  be  nothing  changed  ?    nothing,  when  you  are 

dead. 


i6 


Unstable  Pride. 

Because  her  body  is  a  tender  thing, 
Like  powdered  butterflies,  that  must  remain 
Prideless,  if  any  hand  have  brushed  their  wing  ; 
Or  looking-glass  that  any  breath  may  stain ; 
Or  flower  that  being  rudely  handled  shrinks ; 
Or  warm  wax,  that  takes  print  from  any  seal ; 
Is  it  indeed  for  this  that  woman  thinks 
To  have  the  power  of  man  under  her  heel  ? 
Yet  why  should  his  true  glory  be  obscured 
For  such  a  poor  proud  fond  fragility. 
Or  her  possession  be  with  pride  endured 
Because,  possessed,  she  lacks  security  ? 
Why  should  she  be  honoured  of  men  because 
She  is  dishonoured  by  so  easy  flaws  ? 


17 


Time  and  Beauty. 

Your  hair,  that  burning  gold 
Naked  might  not  behold, 
Shall  tarnish,  and  your  skin 
Wrinkle  its  satin  in, 
And  your  lips,  like  a  rose 
Uncolour  and  unclose ; 
Yet,  because  you  are  made 
Of  beauty,  not  arrayed 
In  beauty's  covering. 
Hold  Time  for  a  vain  thing. 
Time  shall  bid  youth  let  fall 
Its  colours  one  and  all, 
And  wither  in  chill  air 
Bright  blood  and  burning  hair  ; 
When  these  are  overpast. 
The  bones  of  beauty  last. 


i8 


Time  and  Memory. 

Shall  I  be  wroth  with  Time,  that  has  no  stay, 
And  even  dreams  brings  to  a  mortal  end, 
Because  my  soul  to  mortal  things  would  lend 
Her  restless  immortality  away  ? 

I  have  seen  love,  that  was  so  quick  a  flame. 
Go  out  in  ashes  ;  I  have  seen  desire 
Go  out  in  smoke,  that  was  so  bright  a  fire ; 
And  both  become  no  better  than  a  name. 

I  will  be  lessoned  by  the  years  that  bring 
For  hearts  forgetfulness,  for  thought  relief ; 
What  bud  in  spring  remembers  the  last  leaf 
Winter  would  not  let  go  for  all  the  spring  ? 


>9 


The  Passing. 

Weep  not  at  all :  crocuses  in  the  grass, 
Like  little  flames  of  gold,  flicker  and  pass  ; 
The  buds  that  after  winter  soothe  the  trees 
Have  longer  days,  but  pass  even  as  these ; 
And  the  rejoicing  and  all-quickening  spring 
Is  but,  in  sleep,  a  brief  awakening. 
How  little  earth  is  wide  and  deep  enough 
To  cover  this  that,  while  it  lived,  did  love 
Her  lover  no  whit  less  than  Mary  did 
Her  son  ;  in  what  a  shallow  pit  is  hid 
Beauty  that,  while  it  lived,  did  overpower 
Strong  men,  and  now  is  fallen  like  a  flower. 
This,  which  they  leave  alone  under  the  sky 
Naked,  for  rains  to  wash  and  suns  to  dry, 
Veiled  her  soft  flesh  against  the  rain  and  sun 
So  fadeth  every  flower  and  every  one. 


so 


Roman  Meditation. 

Le^rn  wisdom,  this  is  wisdom,  cry 

The  teachers  ;  and  the  teachers  die. 

What  should  it  profit  me  were  mine 

The  wisdom  of  the  Antonine, 

Or  Plato's  ?  What  is  it  to  me 

If  that  be  wisdom  or  this  be  ? 

I  know  the  same  unfaded  world, 

A  pebble  from  the  brook,  is  hurled 

Forth  from  Time's  sling  through  endless  ways, 

And  I  shall  have  no  part  or  place 

Save  in  the  pebble's  senseless  speed. 

Wherein  shall  wisdom  to  my  need 

Minister  ?  how  shall  wisdom  save 

From  the  last  folly  of  the  grave  ? 


21 


Indian  Meditation. 

Where  shall  this  self  at  last  find  happiness  ? 

0  Soul,  only  in  nothingness. 

Does  not  the  Earth  suffice  to  its  own  needs  ? 

And  what  am  I  but  one  of  the  Earth's  weeds  ? 

All  things  have  been  and  all  things  shall  go  on 

Before  me  and  when  I  am  gone  ; 

This  self  that  cries  out  for  eternity 

Is  what  shall  pass  in  me  : 

The  tree  remains,  the  leaf  falls  from  the  tree, 

1  would  be  as  the  leaf,  1  would  be  lost 
In  the  identity  and  death  of  frost, 

Rather  than  draw  the  sap  of  the  tree's  strength 

And  for  the  tree's  sake  be  cast  off  at  length. 

To  be  is  homage  unto  being ;  cease 

To  be,  and  be  at  peace, 

If  it  be  peace  for  self  to  have  forgot 

Even  that  it  is  not. 


22 


Night. 

The  night's  held  breath, 
And  the  stars'  steady  eyes : 
Is  it  sleep,  is  it  death. 
In  the  earth,  in  the  skies  ? 

In  my  heart  of  hope. 

In  my  restless  will. 

There  is  that  should  not  stop 

Though  the  earth  stood  still, 

Though  the  heavens  shook  aghast, 
As  the  frost  shakes  a  tree. 
And  a  strong  wind  cast 
The  stars  in  the  sea. 


23 


III. 

AMENDS  TO  NATURE 


Amends  to  Nature. 

I  have  loved  colours,  and  not  flowers  ; 
Their  motion,  not  the  swallows'  wings ; 
And  wasted  more  than  half  my  hours 
Without  the  comradeship  of  things. 

How  is  it,  now,  that  I  can  see, 
With  love  and  wonder  and  delight, 
The  children  of  the  hedge  and  tree. 
The  little  lords  of  day  and  night  ? 

How  is  it  that  I  see  the  roads. 
No  longer  with  usurping  eyes, 
A  twilight  meeting-place  for  toads, 
A  mid-day  mart  for  butterflies  ? 

I  feel,  in  every  midge  that  hums, 
Life,  fugitive  and  infinite. 
And  suddenly  the  world  becomes 
A  part  of  me  and  I  of  it. 


*7 


Songs  of  Poltescoe  Valley. 
I. 

Under  the  trees  in  the  dell, 
Here  by  the  side  of  the  stream, 
Were  it  not  pleasant  to  dream, 
Were  it  not  better  to  dwell  ? 

Here  is  the  blue  of  the  sea, 
Here  is  the  green  of  the  land, 
Valley  and  meadow  and  sand, 
Seabird  and  cricket  and  bee  ; 

Cows  in  a  field  on  the  hill, 
Farmyards  a-fluster  with  pigs. 
Blossoming  birds  on  the  twigs ; 
Cool,  the  old  croon  of  the  mill. 


28 


II. 

All  day  I  watch  the  sun  and  rain 
That  come  and  go  and  come  again, 
The  doubtful  twilights,  and,  at  dawn 
And  sunset,  curtains  half  withdrawn 
From  open  windows  of  the  sky. 
The  birds  sing  and  the  seagulls  cry 
All  day  in  many  tongues  ;  the  bees 
Hum  in  and  out  under  the  trees 
Where  the  capped  foxglove  on  his  stem 
Shakes  all  his  bells  and  nods  to  them. 

All  day  under  the  rain  and  sun 
The  hours  go  over  one  by  one. 
Brimmed  up  with  delicate  events 
Of  moth-flights  and  the  birth  of  scents 
And  evening  deaths  of  butterflies. 
And  I,  withdrawn  into  my  eyes 
From  that  strict  tedious  world  within, 
Each  day  with  joyous  haste  begin 
To  live  a  new  day  through,  and  then 
Sleep,  and  then  live  it  through  again. 


29 


III. 

The  woodpecker  laughed  as  he  sat  on  the  bough, 

This  morning, 

To  give  fair  warning. 

And  the  rain's  in  the  valley  now. 

Look  now  and  listen :  I  hear  the  noise 

Of  the  thunder. 

And  deep  down  under 

The  sea's  voice  answer  its  voice. 

All  the  leaves  of  the  valley  are  glad. 

And  the  birds  too, 

If  they  had  words  to. 

Would  tell  of  the  joy  they  had. 

Only  you  at  the  window,  with  rueful  lips 

Half  pouting. 

Stand  dumb  and  doubting, 

And  drum  with  your  finger-tips. 


30 


IV. 

When  the  bats  begin  to  flit 
And  the  cottage  lamp  is  lit, 
When  the  nightjar  in  his  throat 
Trills  his  soft  and  woody  note, 
Then  the  hour  has  come  to  nook 
In  a  corner  with  a  book  : 
Keats  or  Campion  shall  it  be  ? 
Nothing  if  not  poetry. 

Bee-like  shall  I  seek  for  sweets 
In  the  honeyed  hedge  of  Keats  ? 
Or  with  Campion  on  the  wing 
Flutter,  poise,  and  perch,  and  sing  ? 
Happy  nightly  to  be  found 
With  "blithe  shades  of  underground,' 
Or  for  a  night-time  to  put  on 
The  bright  woes  of  Hyperion. 


31 


V. 

To  live  and  die  under  a  roof 
Drives  the  brood  of  thoughts  aloof ; 
To  walk  by  night  under  the  sky 
Lets  the  birds  of  thought  fly  ; 
Thoughts  that  may  not  fly  abroad 
Rot  like  lilies  in  the  road ; 
But  the  thoughts  that  fly  too  far 
May  singe  their  wings  against  a  star. 


32 


VI. 

Leav.es  and  grasses  and  the  rill 

That  babbles  by  the  water-mill ; 

Bramble,  fern,  and  bulrushes, 

Honeysuckle  and  honey-bees ; 

Summer  rain  and  summer  sun 

By  turns  before  the  day  is  done  ; 

Rainy  laughter,  twilight  whirr. 

The  nighthawk  and  the  woodpecker  ; 

These  and  such  as  these  delights 

Attend  upon  our  days  and  nights, 

With  the  honey-heavy  air. 

Thatched  slumber,  cream,  and  country  fare. 


33 


VII. 

Gold  and  blue  of  a  sunset  sky, 
Bees  that  buzz  with  a  sleepy  tune, 
A  lowing  cow  and  a  cricket's  cry. 
Swallows  flying  across  the  moon. 

Swallows  flying  across  the  moon, 
The  trees  darken,  the  fields  grow  white  ; 
Day  is  over,  and  night  comes  soon  : 
The  wings  are  all  gone  into  the  night. 


34 


To  a  Sea- Gull. 

Bird,  of  the  fierce  delight, 
Brother  of  foam  as  white 
And  winged  as  foam  is, 
Wheeling  again  from  flight 
To  some  unfooted  height 
Where  your  blithe  home  is  ; 

Bird  of  the  wind  and  spray. 
Crying  by  night  and  day 
Sorrowful  laughter, 
How  shall  man's  thought  survey 
Your  will  or  your  wings'  way, 
Or  follow  after  ? 

What  pride  is  man's,  and  why, 

Angel  of  air,  should  I 

Joy  to  be  human  ? 

You  walk  and  swim  and  fly, 

Laugh  like  a  man  and  cry 

Like  any  woman. 

I  would  your  spirit  were  mine 
When  your  wings  dip  and  shine. 
Smoothly  advancing  ; 
I  drink  a  breathless  wine 
Of  speed  in  your  divine 
Aerial  dancing. 


35 


Cornish  Wind, 

There  is  a  wind  in  Cornwall  that  I  know 

From  any  other  wind,  because  it  smells 

Of  the  warm  honey  breath  of  heather-bells 

And  of  the  sea's  salt ;  and  these  meet  and  flow 

With  such  sweet  savour  in  such  sharpness  met 

That  the  astonished  sense  in  ecstasy 

Tastes  the  ripe  earth  and  the  unvintaged  sea. 

Wind  out  of  Cornwall,  wind,  if  I  forget  : 

Not  in  the  tunnelled  streets  where  scarce  men  breathe 

The  air  they  live  by,  but  wherever  seas 

Blossom  in  foam,  wherever  merchant  bees 

Volubly  traffic  upon  any  heath  : 

If  I  forget,  shame  me  !  or  if  I  find 

A  wind  in  England  like  my  Cornish  wind. 


36 


By  Loe  Pool. 

The  pool  glitters,  the  fishes  leap  in  the  sun 

With  joyous  fins,  and  dive  in  the  pool  again  ; 

I  see  the  corn  in  sheaves,  and  the  harvestmen, 

And  the  cows  coming  down  to  the  water  one  by  one. 

Dragon-flies  mailed  in  lapis  and  malachite 

Flash  through  the  bending  reeds  and  blaze  on  the  pool ; 

Sea-ward,  where  trees  cluster,  the  shadow  is  cool ; 

I  hear  a  sighing,  where  the  sea  is,  out  of  sight ; 

It  is  noontide,  and  the  fishes  leap  in  the  pool. 


37 


Harvest  Moon. 

Thoughtful  luminous  harvest  moon,  as  I  walk, 

The  rich  and  sumptuous  night,  the  procession  of  trees 

Under  the  moon  ;  the  stream's  babbling  talk  ; 

One  star  on  the  eastern  ridge  hung  low  on  the  sea's 

Border  unseen  ;  a  rose-grey  shade  in  the  west, 

Faded,  a  petal  of  sunset,  the  absolute  rose ; 

Crickets  chirp,  the  sounds  of  day  are  at  rest ; 

Under  the  harvest  moon,  one  by  one  goes 

The  austere  procession  of  trees,  that  walk  as  I  walk. 


38 


Villa  Borghese. 

A  grace  of  winter  breathing  like  the  spring  ; 
SoUtude,  silence,  the  thin  whispering 
Of  water  in  the  fountains,  that  all  day 
Talk  with  the  leaves  ;  the  winds,  gentle  as  they, 
Rustle  the  silken  garments  of  their  speech 
Rarely,  for  they  keep  silence,  each  by  each. 
The  dim  green  silence  of  the  dreaming  trees, 
Cypress  and  pine  and  the  cloaked  ilexes, 
That  winter  never  chills ;  and  all  these  keep 
A  sweet  and  grave  and  unawakening  sleep, 
Reticent  of  its  dreams,  but  hearing  all 
The  babble  of  the  fountains  as  they  fall, 
Chattering  bright  and  irresponsible  words 
As  in  a  baby-speech  of  liquid  birds. 


39 


Stratford-on-Avon. 

Bright  leaves  and  the  pale  grass  turn  grey  ,• 
Now,  sudden  as  a  thought,  one  swan 
Moves  on  the  water  and  is  gone  ; 
The  broad  and  liberal  flood  of  day 
Ebbs  to  thin  twilight,  and  night  soon 
Out  of  the  wells  of  dark  fills  up 
The  valley  like  a  brimming  cup 
With  silver  waters  of  the  moon. 

This  is  the  ardent  hour  of  peace  ; 
The  Avon  like  a  mirror  lies 
Under  the  pale  November  skies  ; 
The  shaken  moon  and  the  still  trees 
Trouble  the  water  not  a  whit, 
And,  secret  as  a  hidden  word, 
One  note  is  spoken  by  one  bird 
As  if  the  water  answered  it. 


40 


Felpham. 

"  Away  to  sweet  Felpham,  for  heaven  is  there." — Blake. 

Here  Blake  saw  the  seventy-seven 

Stairs,  and  golden  gates  of  heaven  ; 

He  said  "  Come,  for  heaven  is  there  "  ; 

He  saw  heaven  where  I  see  air. 

He  saw  angels  where  I  see 

Only  divine  earth  and  sea. 

*'  Bread  of  thought,  wine  of  delight," 

Fed  his  spirit  day  and  night. 

But  what  heavenly  bread  or  wine 

Shall  in  these  late  days  feed  mine  ? 

What  strong  lust  of  mortal  eyes 

Shuts  me  out  of  Paradise  ? 

I  can  see,  and  'tis  enough 

For  my  appetite  of  love. 

Waters  yellow,  rose,  and  green. 

Like  the  meadow-colours  seen 

In  an  opal  absinthine 

To  the  sea's  pale  level  line  ; 

Lavender  and  yellow  sand, 

With  painted  pebbles  near  the  land  ; 

Moss-grown  groins  all  over-hung 

With  brown-leaved  wreaths  of  seaweed,  flung 

By  the  sea  to  cover  them  ; 

Bright  wet  sea-pools  that  begem 

The  duller  sand  ;  and  then  green  grass 

Brighter  than  clear  crysopras  ; 

Tufted  tamarisk  that  is 

Ruddier  than  burnt  topazes ; 

41 


And,  against  the  sky  in  rows, 
Branches  black  with  nests  and  crows, 
To  whose  shelter  homeward  fly 
Wings  out  of  the  twilight  sky, 
And  there  softly  put  to  rest 
Tired  day  into  its  nest. 


4* 


The  Gardener. 

The.  gardener  in  his  old  brown  hands 
Turns  over  the  brown  earth, 
As  if  he  loves  and  understands 
The  flowers  before  their  birth, 
The  fragile  childish  little  strands 
He  buries  in  the  earth. 

Like  pious  children  one  by  one 

He  sets  them  head  by  head, 

And  draws  the  clothes,  when  all  is  done, 

Closely  about  each  head. 

And  leaves  his  children  to  sleep  on 

In  the  one  quiet  bed. 


43 


Sea  Twilight. 

The  sea,  a  pale  blue  crystal  cup, 
With  pale  water  was  brimmed  up  ; 
And  there  was  seen,  on  either  hand, 
Liquid  sky  and  shadowy  sand. 

The  loud  and  bright  and  burning  day, 
Charred  to  ashes,  ebbed  away  ; 
The  listening  twilight  only  heard 
Water  whispering  one  word. 


44 


Twilight  Song. 

Warder  of  silence,  keep 

Watch  on  the  ways  of  sleep  ; 

Twilight,  bringer  of  night, 

End  the  day  with  delight. 

Out  of  branch,  out  of  bush, 

What  winds  waken  and  hush  ? 

Out  of  hedge,  out  of  grass, 

Murmurs  rustle  and  pass. 

See,  on  tottering  feet. 

Lambs  that  sleepily  bleat ; 

Hark,  from  fields  where  they  browse. 

Complaining  voices  of  cows  ; 

Challenging  night,  rings  out 

The  cuckoo's  confident  shout ; 

But  the  wailing  pee-wit 

Calls  the  night  home  to  it. 


45 


Rome. 

A  high  and  naked  square,  a  lonely  palm  ; 

Columns  thrown  down,  a  high  and  lonely  tower  ; 

The  tawny  river,  ominously  fouled  ; 

Cypresses  in  a  garden,  old  with  calm  ; 

Two  monks  who  pass  in  white,  sandalled  and  cowled  ; 

Empires  of  glory  in  a  narrow  hour 

From  sunset  into  starlight  when  the  sky 

Wakened  to  death  behind  St.  Peter's  dome  : 

That,  in  an  eyelid's  lifting,  you  and  I 

Will  see  whenever  any  man  says  "  Rome." 


46 


Lond 


on. 


Th&  sun,  a  fiery  orange  in  the  air, 

Thins  and  discolours  to  a  disc  of  tin, 

Until  the  breathing  mist's  mouth  sucks  it  in ; 

And  now  there  is  no  colour  anywhere, 

Only  the  ghost  of  greyness  ;  vapour  fills 

The  hollows  of  the  streets,  and  seems  to  shroud 

Gulfs  where  a  noise  of  multitude  is  loud 

As  unseen  water  falling  among  hills. 

Now  the  light  withers,  stricken  at  the  root, 

And,  in  the  evil  glimpses  of  the  light, 

Men  as  trees  walking  loom  through  lanes  of  night 

Hung  with  the  globes  of  some  unnatural  fruit. 

To  live,  and  to  die  daily,  deaths  like  these, 

Is  it  to  live,  while  there  are  winds  and  seas? 


47 


Autumn. 

There  is  so  little  wind  at  all, 
The  last  leaves  cling,  and  do  not  fall 
From  the  bare  branches*  ends  ;  I  sit 
Under  a  tree  and  gaze  at  it, 
A  slender  web  against  the  sky, 
Where  a  small  grey  cloud  goes  by  ; 
I  feel  a  speechless  happiness 
Creep  to  me  out  of  quietness. 

What  is  it  in  the  earth,  the  air. 
The  smell  of  autumn,  or  the  rare 
And  half  reluctant  harmonies 
The  mist  weaves  out  of  silken  skies, 
What  is  it  shuts  my  brain  and  brings 
These  sleepy  dim  awakenings. 
Till  I  and  all  things  seem  to  be 
Kin  and  companion  to  a  tree  ? 


48 


Winter  in  Spring. 

Wioter  is  over,  and  the  ache  of  the  year 

Quieted  into  rest ; 

The  torn  boughs  heal,  and  the  time  of  the  leaf  is  near. 

And  the  time  of  the  nest. 

The  poor  man  shivers  less  by  his  little  hearth, 
He  will  warm  his  hands  in  the  sun ; 
He  thinks  there  may  be  friendliness  in  the  earth 
Now  the  winter  is  done. 

Winter  is  over,  I  see  the  gentle  and  strange 
And  irresistible  spring : 

Where  is  it  I  carry  winter,  that  I  feel  no  change 
In  anything  ? 


49 


Night  in  the  Valley. 

Waves  of  the  gentle  waters  of  the  healing  night, 
Flow  over  me  with  silent  peace  and  golden  dark, 
Wash  me  of  sound,  wash  me  of  colour,  drown  the  day ; 
Light  the  tall  golden  candles  and  put  out  the  day. 

Smells  of  the  valley  gather  round  me  with  the  night : 
Honey  is  in  the  wind  and  salt  is  in  the  wind. 
Like  a  drugged  cup  with  hot  sweet  scents  of  sleepy  herbs 
And  sharp  with  fiery  breaths  of  coolness  in  the  cup, 
Wind  of  the  sea,  wind  of  the  valley,  drunken  wind. 

Out  of  the  valley,  voices  ;  hark,  beyond  the  hedge 
A  long  deep  sigh,  the  human  sighing  of  a  beast  ; 
Under  the  eaves  the  last  low  twitter  in  the  thatch ; 
Across  the  valley,  harsh  and  sweet,  the  patient  whirr 
Of  the  untiring  bird  that  tells  the  hours  of  night. 

Else,  silence  in  the  valley  while  the  night  goes  by 
Like  quiet  waters  flowing  over  the  loud  day's 
Brightness,  the  empty  sea,  and  the  vexed  heart  of  man. 


50 


Wind  in  the  Valley. 

Alh  the  valley  fills  with  wind 
As  a  rock-pool  with  the  tide  ; 
And  the  tumult,  clashed  and  dinned, 
Floods  like  waters  far  and  wide. 

The  torn  mainsail  of  the  rain. 
By  the  clutching  wind  strained  tight. 
Flaps  against  the  window-pane, 
Creaking  at  the  mast  all  night. 

Hands  of  wind  are  at  the  doors. 
Feet  of  wind  upon  the  roof; 
Wind  with  dragon  voices  roars 
Blindly,  trumpeting  aloof. 

Mouths  of  wind  at  all  the  cracks 
Whistle  through  the  walls  ;  and,  hark  ! 
Lashes  clang  on  leaping  backs 
Of  the  horses  of  the  dark. 


5» 


Wind  at  Night. 

The  night  was  full  of  wind  that  ran 
Like  a  strong  blind  distracted  man 
About  the  fields  in  the  loud  rain ; 
The  night  was  full  of  the  wind's  pain. 

I  looked  into  the  naked  air, 
Only  the  crying  wind  was  there, 
In  wet  invisible  torment,  tossed 
About  the  darkness  like  a  ghost. 

My  thought  in  me  cried  out  and  sought 
Only,  like  wind,  to  fly  from  thought ; 
But  like  my  thought  the  wind  could  find 
Nowhere  to  hide  out  of  the  wind. 


5* 


The  Crying  of  the  Earth. 

I  hear  the  melancholy  crying  of  birds  in  the  night 
Over  the  long  brown  wrinkled  fields  that  lie 
As  far  along  as  the  starless  roots  of  the  sky ; 
I  hear  them  crying  from  the  water  out  of  sight, 

A  melancholy  and  insatiable  and  inexplicable  noise, 

A  loud  whimpering  between  two  silences, 

The  silence  of  starry  life  and  this  that  is 

The  silence  of  Earth  in  pain  of  travail :  O  voice 

Wandering  bodiless,  between  sky  and  sod, 

Angry  and  pitiful,  a  crying  uncomforted. 

Are  you  not  the  crying  of  the  Earth  on  her  outraged  bed. 

Against  Man,  who  has  got  her  with  child,  to  her  father 

God? 


53 


IV. 

GUESTS. 


The  Guests. 

When  I  and  my  own  heart  are  all  alone 
With  one  another  and  our  neighbour  thought, 
We  talk  together,  but  the  talk  has  grown 
Sadder  of  late,  and  we  have  grown  distraught. 
The  feasting-table  as  of  old  is  spread. 
And  of  the  self-same  fare  we  drink  and  eat ; 
But  listless  fingers  and  a  drooping  head 
Take  all  the  savour  out  of  princes'  meat. 
Then,  as  my  neighbour  thought  and  I  sit  down, 
Looking  on  one  another's  eyes  grown  cold 
And  silent  lips  and  joy-dispelling  frown. 
That  were  so  joyous  table-mates  of  old. 
Each  plots  to  call  in  guests,  if  guests  there  be 
That  would  sit  down  between  my  thought  and  me. 


57 


A  Triptych. 

I.   S.  Apollinare  in  Classe  :  Ravenna. 

A  temple  by  the  wayside,  a  shut  gate 

Which  no  priest  enters,  going  in  to  God ; 

Within,  carved  marble  columns  rise  in  state, 

Making  a  delicate  and  royal  road 

To  the  mosaic  of  the  heavenly  choir, 

Where  in  the  dome  the  stars  about  the  cross 

Break  into  golden  and  pale  lunar  fire. 

And  the  six  sheep  from  Bethlehem  move  across 

To  where  six  sheep  come  from  Jerusalem, 

Seeking  their  shepherd,  Christ ;  for  these  are  Christ's 

Apostles,  sheep  that  love  him,  and  with  them, 

Not  less  than  they,  the  four  Evangelists. 

Age  has  not  dwindled  nor  rude  time  effaced 

This  splendour  :  S.  Apollinare  stands. 

Exiled,  a  mighty  temple  in  the  waste. 

Without,  a  grey  mist  and  unhappy  lands ; 

A  pool,  a  thin  straight  line  of  fragile  trees ; 

A  treeless  moor,  a  shivering  brown  morass  ; 

Woods  ruddy  with  the  lovely  bright  disease 

Of  autumn  dying  into  winter ;  pines. 

Their  dark  green  heads  aloft  into  the  air, 

Crowding  together,  or  in  travelling  lines  ; 

Jewelled  and  dim,  marsh-waters  everywhere. 


58 


II.  ^  Isotta  to  the  Rose :   Rimini. 

The  little  country  girl  who  plucks  a  rose 
Goes  barefoot  through  the  sunlight  to  the  sea, 
And  singing  of  Isotta  as  she  goes. 

When  I  am  dead,  men  shall  remember  me 
Under  my  marble  roses  in  the  tomb 
Built  like  the  Virgin's  shrine  in  Rimini. 

Why  should  my  beauty  last  beyond  the  bloom 
Of  any  summer  rose  ?  but  I  must  live, 
Old,  and  not  knowing,  in  the  narrow  room. 

My  rose,  I  would  be  frail  and  fugitive. 
As  you  are ;  but  my  lover  and  my  king 
Gives  me  the  fatal  gift  he  has  to  give. 

Sigismund  gives  me,  as  a  little  thing, 
His  immortality  ;  his  will  is  mine, 
For  1  am  his,  but  I  stand  wondering. 

The  woman  that  I  am  to  be  divine. 

The  body  that  I  have  to  stand  in  stone 

As  Michael,  and  be  worshipped  at  his  shrine ! 

But  I,  like  my  pale  roses  over-blown, 
Would  fade  and  fall,  and  be  the  dust  in  dust, 
And  nothing  that  I  ever  was  be  known. 


59 


A  little  while  we  have  for  life  and  lust : 

My  marble  roses,  pity  me,  and  shed 

Your  petals  carved  to  hold  my  name  in  trust, 

And  let  me  be  forgotten,  being  dead  ! 


60 


III.  The  Campo  Santo :  Pisa. 

Death  has  a  chapel  here,  and  on  the  walls 
You  read  his  chronicle  :  how  men  who  die 
Are  not  at  end  after  their  funerals, 

And  how  the  busy  loving  worm  sucks  dry 
The  marrow  of  their  bones,  and  other  men 
Sicken  and  stop  their  noses,  riding  by  ; 

And  how  an  angel  wakens  them,  and  then 
The  manner  of  their  judgment,  and  the  way 
That  leads  to  hell  and  the  eternal  pain. 

Also  there  is  a  heaven,  where  minstrels  play 
And  men  and  women  under  summer  boughs 
Talk  with  each  other  in  a  golden  day. 

Upon  the  walls  men  love  and  men  carouse, 

Men  sleep  and  wake,  and  death  comes  when  he  will, 

And  gathers  all  into  his  equal  house. 

The  mournful  and  memorial  walls  are  chill : 
All  flesh  is  grass,  they  say,  and  withereth  ; 
Yet  (shall  not  all  flesh  live  ?)  live  grasses  fill 

These  cloisters  of  this  sanctuary  of  death. 


6i 


Giovanni  Malatesta  at  Rimini. 

Giovanni  Malatesta,  the  lame  old  man, 

Walking  one  night,  as  he  was  used,  being  old, 

Upon  the  grey  seashore  at  Rimini, 

And  thinking  dimly  of  those  two  whom  love 

Led  to  one  death,  and  his  less  happy  soul 

For  which  Cain  waited,  heard  a  seagull  scream 

Twice,  like  Francesca  ;  for  he  struck  but  twice. 

At  that,  rage  thrust  down  pity  ;  for  it  seemed 

As  if  those  windy  bodies  with  the  sea's 

Unfriended  heart  within  them  for  a  voice 

Had  turned  to  mock  him ;  and  he  called  them  friends. 

And  he  had  found  a  wild  peace  hearing  them 

Cry  senseless  cries,  halloing  to  the  wind. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  the  sea ;  he  saw 

The  ragged  teeth  of  the  sharp  Apennines 

Shut  on  the  sea  ;  his  shadow  in  the  moon 

Ploughed  up  a  furrow  with  an  iron  staff 

In  the  hard  sand,  and  thrust  a  long  lean  chin 

Outward  and  downward,  and  thrust  out  a  foot, 

And  leaned  to  follow  after.     As  he  saw 

His  crooked  knee  go  forward  under  him 

And  after  it  the  long  straight  iron  staff, 

"  The  staff,"  he  thought,  "  is  Paolo  :  like  that  staff 

And  like  that  knee  we  walked  between  the  sun 

And  her  unmerciful  eyes  "  ;  and  the  old  man, 

Thinking  of  God,  and  how  God  ruled  the  world, 

And  gave  to  one  man  beauty  for  a  snare 

And  a  warped  body  to  another  man, 

Not  less  than  he  in  soul,  not  less  than  he 

62 


In  hunger  and  capacity  for  joy, 
Forgot  Francesca's  evil  and  his  wrong, 
His  anger,  his  revenge,  that  memory, 
Wondering  at  man's  forgiveness  of  the  old 
Divine  injustice,  wondering  at  himself : 
Giovanni  Mala  testa  judging  God. 


63 


Otho  and  Poppaea :  A  Dramatic  Scene. 

Otho. 

A  word,  Poppaea ! 

Poppaea. 

I  will  speak  with  you 

If  you  will  speak  for  kindness  ;  but  your  brows 

Are  sick  and  stormy  :  why  do  you  frown  on  me  ? 

I  will  not  speak  unless  it  is  for  love. 

Otho. 

Nothing  but  love,  Poppaea ;  nothing  less. 

Poppaea. 

Then  sit  by  me  and  take  my  hand,  and  tell  me 
Why  you  are  sick  and  stormy  and  unkind 
For  nothing  less  than  love. 

Otho. 

If  I  should  sit 

So  near  you  as  to  touch  you ;  no,  this  once 

I  will  not  touch  you,  and  this  once  I  will 

Speak  to  the  end. 

Poppaea.     [Sitting  down.'] 

Why,  stand  then,  and  so  far, 

And  come  no  nearer,  and  by  all  the  gods 

Speak,  and  if  you  would  have  it  to  be  the  end 

You  are  the  master  here,  not  I. 

64 


Otho. 

Alas, 

I  fear  the  end  is  over.     Yet,  if  once, 

As  I  thought  once,  you  loved  me,  if  you  keep 

So  much  remembrance  as  to  have  not  forgot 

How,  when,  how  much,  I  loved  you,  tell  me  now 

What  you  would  have  me  do. 

POPPAEA. 

You  love  me  still .? 

Otho. 
Still 

PoPPAEA. 

And  no  less  than  when  you  coveted 

My  husband's  wife,  and  still  no  less  than  when 

You  heated  Caesar,  praising  me  ^ 

Otho. 

No  less  ? 

No  more,  Poppaea  .'' 

PoPPAEA. 

There  was  a  time  once. 

You  loved  me  lightly ;  there  was  a  time  once 
You  taught  me  to  love  lightly  ;  and  a  time 
Before  that  time,  if  you  had  loved  me  then 
I  had  not  loved  you  lightly,  Otho.     Now 
I  have  learned  your  lesson,  and  I  ask  of  you 
No  more  than  what  you  taught  me. 
6S 


Otho. 

Miserable, 

And  a  blind  fool,  and  deadly  to  myself, 

I  have  undone  my  life  ;  it  is  I  who  ask 

What  you  have  taught  me  ;  for  I  cannot  live 

Without  that  constant  poison  of  your  love 

That  you  have  drugged  me  with,  and  withered  me 

Into  a  craving  fever.     There  is  a  death 

More  cruel  in  your  arms  than  in  the  grave, 

More  exquisite  than  many  tortures,  more 

An  ecstasy  than  agony,  more  quick 

With  vital  pangs  than  life  is.     If  I  must. 

Bid  me  begone,  and  let  me  go  and  die. 

POPPAEA. 

There  is  no  man  I  would  not  rather  know 
Alive  to  love  me.     What  have  I  done  to  you, 
Otho,  that  you  should  cry  against  me  thus  ? 

Otho. 

I  will  ask  Nero  :  you  I  will  not  ask. 

PoPPAEA. 

Otho,  I  hold  your  hand  with  both  my  hands. 
Look  in  my  face,  and  read  there  if  I  lie  ; 
But  I  will  love  you,  Otho,  if  you  will. 

Otho. 

I  hold  your  hands,  I  look  into  your  eyes, 

There  is  no  truth  in  them  ;  they  laugh  with  pride 

And  to  be  mistress  of  the  souls  of  men. 

66 


POPPAEA. 

I  will  not  let  you  go  unless  you  swear 
That  you  believe  me ;  tell  me,  is  it  true, 
Nothing  but  truth,  and  do  you  really  love 
Nothing  but  me  ? 

Otho. 

There  is  not  in  the  world 

Anything  kind  or  cruel,  anything 

Worth  the  remembering,  else  :  but  you  are  false. 

False  for  a  crown,  and  you  are  Cressida, 

False  for  the  sake  of  falseness. 

PoppAEA.     [Rising.'] 

On  my  life, 

I  love  you,  and  I  will  not  let  you  go. 

The  crown  makes  not  the  Caesar ;  have  I  not  found 

More  than  a  kingdom  here  ?     Take  this  poor  kiss, 

And  this,  and  this,  for  tribute. 

Otho. 

Either  the  Gods 

Have  sent  some  madness  on  me,  or  I  live 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

[Nero  enters  quietly  and  comes  up  to  Otho  and  Poppa ea. 

Nero. 

My  most  dear  friend. 

Once,  being  with  this  woman  who  stands  here, 

(Do  you  remember .'')  you,  with  her  good  leave. 

Shut  to  the  door  upon  me :  I  knocked  then. 

Hearing  your  voices  merry  with  the  trick, 

67 


And  no  man  opened,  and  I  went  away. 
I  ask  now  of  this  woman,  and  not  now 
As  Cassar,  but  your  rival,  Otho,  still, 
I  bid  her  choose  between  us.     Let  her  speak, 
And  you,  my  Otho,  listen. 

Otho. 

If  the  truth 

Live  in  your  soul,  speak  now,  Poppaea,  now 

The  last  time  in  the  world. 

Nero.    \_Smilmg.'\ 
Poppaea  ? 

Poppaea.     \_Throwiftg  herself  into  his  arms.'] 

Need 

Poppaea  speak  ?     Nero  knows  all  her  heart. 

Nero. 

Is  this  enough,  Otho  .' 

Otho. 

It  is  enough  ; 

Otho  knows  all  her  heart. 


68 


Prologue  for  a  Modern  Painter. 

Td  A.  E.  John. 

Hear  the  hymn  of  the  body  of  man  : 

This  is  how  the  world  began  ; 

In  these  tangles  of  mighty  flesh 

The  stuff  of  the  earth  is  moulded  afresh. 

What  struggles  and  cries  in  eyes  and  cheeks  ? 
The  stir  of  the  sap  that  awakes  and  seeks 
To  give  again  the  gift  it  receives 
And  burgeon  into  buds  and  leaves ; 

The  sadness  and  the  ardour  of  life, 
Violent  animal  peace,  the  strife 
Of  woman's  instinct  and  man's  blood 
With  patterns  of  beauty  and  rules  of  good. 

Here  nature  is,  alive  and  untamed. 
Unafraid  and  unashamed  ; 
Here  man  knows  woman  with  the  greed 
Of  Adam's  wonder,  the  primal  need. 

The  spirit  of  life  cries  out  and  hymns 

In  all  the  muscles  of  these  limbs  ; 

And  the  holy  spirit  of  appetite 

Wakes  the  browsing  body  with  morning  light. 


69 


For  a  Picture  of  Rossetti. 

Smoke  of  battle  lifts  and  lies 
Sullen  in  her  smouldering  eyes, 
Where  are  seen 
Captive  bales  of  merchandize. 

Here  are  shudderings  of  spears, 
Webs  of  ambush,  nets  of  fears, 
Here  have  been 
Prisons,  and  a  place  of  tears. 

In  her  hair  have  souls  been  caught  ; 
Here  are  snared  the  strength  of  thought, 
Pride  of  craft, 
Here  desire  has  come  to  nought. 

Have  not  her  lips  kissed  again 

Lips  that  kissed  for  love's  sake,  when 

Her  lips  laughed 

Like  a  passing-bell  for  men  ? 

This  is  what  Rossetti  says 
In  the  crisis  of  a  face. 


70 


A  Profile. 

A  nymph  in  all  her  ardour  towards  the  Faun, 

Leant  heavily,  with  open  eyes  alight, 

And  wet  lips  redder  than  an  April  dawn, 

And  panting  hair,  and  bright  cheeks  burning  white. 

And  white  breast  lifted  on  the  stormy  tide 

That  ebbs  and  flows  through  all  her  body,  full 

Of  unaware  desire,  unfrighted  pride, 

And  young  joy  making  passion  beautiful. 


71 


Emily  Bronte. 

This  was  a  woman  young  and  passionate, 
Loving  the  Earth,  and  loving  most  to  be 
Where  she  might  be  alone  with  liberty  ; 
Loving  the  beasts,  who  are  compassionate  ; 
The  homeless  moors,  her  home  ;  the  bright  elate 
Winds  of  the  cold  dawn  ;  rock  and  stone  and  tree ; 
Night,  bringing  dreams  out  of  eternity  ; 
And  memory  of  Death's  unforgetting  date. 
She  too  was  unforgetting  :  has  she  yet 
Forgotten  that  long  agony  when  her  breath 
Too  fierce  for  living  fanned  the  flame  of  death  ? 
Earth  for  her  heather,  does  she  now  forget 
What  pity  knew  not  in  her  love  from  scorn. 
And  that  it  was  an  unjust  thing  to  be  born  ? 


7* 


The  Rope  Maker. 

I  weave  the  strands  of  the  grey  rope, 
I  weave  with  sorrow,  I  weave  with  hope, 
I  weave  in  youth,  love,  and  regret, 
I  weave  life  into  the  net. 

When  I  was  a  child  the  care  began. 

And  now  my  child  shall  be  a  man  ; 

When  I  am  old  and  my  fingers  shake. 

There'll  be  nets  to  mend,  and  more  nets  to  make. 

And  life's  a  weary  and  heavy  thing. 
And  there's  no  rest  in  the  evening  ; 
And  long  or  light  though  the  labour  be. 
It's  a  life  to  the  net,  and  nets  to  the  sea. 


73 


The  Chopin  Player, 

To  Vladimir  de  Pachmann. 

The  sounds  torture  me  :  I  see  them  in  my  brain  ; 
They  spin  a  flickering  web  of  living  threads, 
Like  butterflies  upon  the  garden  beds, 
Nets  of  bright  sound.     I  follow  them  :  in  vain. 
I  must  not  brush  the  least  dust  from  their  wings  : 
They  die  of  a  touch  ;  but  I  must  capture  them, 
Or  they  will  turn  to  a  caressing  flame, 
And  lick  my  soul  up  with  their  flutterings. 

The  sounds  torture  me  :   I  count  them  with  my  eyes, 

I  feel  them  like  a  thirst  between  my  lips  ; 

Is  it  my  body  or  my  soul  that  cries 

With  little  coloured  mouths  of  sound,  and  drips 

In  these  bright  drops  that  turn  to  butterflies 

Dying  delicately  at  my  finger  tips  ? 


74 


The  Sick  Man  to  Health. 
I. 

The  eyes,  that,  having  seen  the  saintly  light 

Blossom  white-petalled  out  of  a  white  sea 

In  a  miraculous  rose  of  breathing  light. 

See  a  patched  harlot  reel  unsteadily. 

From  lamp  to  lamp  dragging  a  yellow  train  ; 

The  ears,  that  pant  with  anger  and  quick  fear 

At  a  beloved  voice  heard  suddenly, 

Or  at  a  half-felt  echo  in  the  brain 

Of  music  it  had  once  been  life  to  hear ; 

The  nostrils,  weary  gates  that  open  now 

Upon  a  garden  where  the  flowers  are  sick 

And  the  dead  fruit  hangs  rotting  on  the  bough  ; 

The  mouth,  that  now  eats  ashes  and  drinks  dust, 

And  was  so  keen  to  savour  and  so  quick 

To  sort  its  lust  from  any  other's  lust ; 

The  many  hands  that  in  the  body  move 

To  touch  the  world  and  pasture  their  delight 

Where  sacredly  they  did  with  things  unite 

In  mutual  acts  of  love  ; 

Cry  to  thee,  with  a  great  and  feeble  cry. 

II. 

The  bones,  that  are  the  pillars,  and  the  flesh 

That  is  the  gracious  substance  of  the  house. 

And  the  smooth  skin  that  spreads  so  fair  and  fresh 

A  covering  for  the  walls,  and  all  the  beams 

And  rafters  that  as  joints  and  sinews  mesh 

75 


The  body's  framework,  and  the  blood  that  streams 
Like  heaven's  own  light  seen  through  a  crimson  rose 
Through  all  the  painted  windows  of  the  south  ; 
Cry  out  of  tarnished  colour  and  strained  wood 
And  out  of  joists  unceiled  and  by  the  mouth 
Of  whistling  panes,  that  let  the  salt  winds  through  ; 
All  these,  that  being  evil  have  known  good 
And  hunger  backward  for  the  good  they  knew, 
Cry  to  thee  with  a  long  and  shaken  cry. 

III. 

The  will,  that  ruled  a  city  all  its  own, 

And  now,  without  sedition,  like  a  king 

Thrust  quietly  aside,  is  overthrown  ; 

The  memory,  that  of  any  former  thing 

Could  character  the  poise,  the  form,  the  size, 

The  impress  of  its  shape  upon  the  air, 

And  now,  forgetting  its  blithe  energies, 

Lies  drowsing  in  the  sun,  or,  as  it  lies, 

Repeats  a  fond  arithmetic  of  sighs  ; 

Identity,  that  wanders  like  the  smoke. 

Following  a  wind  that  stays  not  anywhere ; 

Conscience,  that  would  not  waken  though  God  spoke ; 

Cry  to  thee  with  an  unavailing  cry. 


76 


The  Turning  Dervish. 

Stars  in  the  heavens  turn, 
I  worship  like  a  star, 
And  in  its  footsteps  learn 
Where  peace  and  wisdom  are. 

Man  crawls  as  a  worm  crawls  ; 
Till  dust  with  dust  he  lies, 
A  crooked  line  he  scrawls 
Between  the  earth  and  skies. 

Yet  God,  having  ordained 
The  course  of  star  and  sun. 
No  creature  hath  constrained 
A  meaner  course  to  run. 

I,  by  his  lesson  taught, 
Imaging  his  design. 
Have  diligently  wrought 
Motion  to  be  divine. 

I  turn  until  my  sense. 
Dizzied  with  waves  of  air, 
Spins  to  a  point  intense. 
And  spires  and  centres  there. 

There,  motionless  in  speed, 
I  drink  that  flaming  peace, 
"Which  in  the  heavens  doth  feed 
The  stars  with  bright  increase. 
77 


Some  spirit  in  me  doth  move 
Through  ways  of  Jight  untrod, 
Till,  with  excessive  love, 
I  drown,  and  am  in  God. 


78 


The  Armenian  Dancer. 

0  secret  and  sharp  sting 
That  ends  and  makes  delight, 
Come,  my  limbs  call  thee,  smite 
To  music  every  string 

Of  my  limbs  quivering. 

1  strain,  and  follow  on 
After  a  joy  in  flight, 
That  flies,  and  is  delight 
Only  when  it  is  gone. 
Not  to  be  looked  upon. 

I  strain,  and  would  embrace 
With  ardours  infinite 
Some  angel  of  delight 
That  turns  his  heavenly  face 
Ever  into  void  space. 

I  dance,  and  as  I  dance 
Desires  as  fires  burn  white 
To  fan  the  flame  delight ; 
What  vague  desires  advance 
With  covered  countenance  ? 

I  dance,  and  shall  not  tire 
Though  music  in  my  sight 
Faint  before  my  delight. 
And  song  like  a  thin  fire 
Fail  before  my  desire. 
79 


The  sense  within  me  turns 
In  labyrinths  as  of  light, 
Not  dying  into  delight ; 
As  a  flame  quickening  burns, 
Speed  in  my  body  yearns. 

I  stop,  a  quivering 
Wraps  me  and  folds  me  tight ; 
I  shudder,  and  touch  delight, 
The  secret  and  sharp  sting. 
Suddenly,  a  grave  thing. 


80 


The  Andante  of  Snakes. 

They  weave  a  slow  andante  as  in  sleep, 
Scaled  yellow,  swampy  black,  plague-spotted  white  ; 
With  blue  and  lidless  eyes  at  watch  they  keep 
A  treachery  of  silence  ;  infinite 

Ancestral  angers  brood  in  these  dull  eyes 
Where  the  long-lineaged  venom  of  the  snake 
Meditates  evil ;  woven  intricacies 
Of  Oriental  arabesque  awake, 

Unfold,  expand,  contract,  and  raise  and  sway 
Swoln  heart-shaped  heads,  flattened  as  by  a  heel. 
Erect  to  suck  the  sunlight  from  the  day. 
And  stealthily  and  gradually  reveal 

Dim  cabalistic  signs  of  spots  and  rings 
Among  their  folds  of  faded  tapestry ; 
Then  these  fat,  foul,  unbreathing,  moving  things 
Droop  back  to  stagnant  immobility. 


8i 


Song  of  the  Sirens. 


Our  breasts  are  cold,  salt  are  our  kisses, 

Your  blood  shall  whiten  in  our  sea -blisses ; 

A  man's  desire  is  a  flame  of  fire, 

But  chill  as  water  is  our  desire, 

Chill  as  water  that  sucks  in 

A  drowning  man's  despairing  chin 

With  a  little  kissing  noise ; 

And  like  the  water's  voice  our  voice. 

Our  hands  are  colder  than  your  lovers', 
Colder  than  pearls  that  the  sea  covers ; 
Are  a  girl's  hands  as  white  as  pearls  ? 
Take  the  hands  of  the  sea-girls. 
And  come  with  us  to  the  under-sands  ; 
We  will  hold  in  our  cold  hands 
Flaming  heart  and  burning  head. 
And  put  thought  and  love  to  bed. 

We  are  the  last  desires ;  we  have  waited. 
Till,  by  all  things  mortal  sated. 
And  by  dreams  deceived,  the  scorn 
Of  every  foolish  virgin  morn. 
You,  awakening  at  last, 
Drunken,  beggared  of  the  past, 
In  the  last  lust  of  despair 
Tangle  your  souls  into  our  hair. 


82 


The  Lovers  of  the  Wind. 

Can  any  man  be  quiet  in  his  soul 

And  love  the  wind  ?     Men  love  the  sea,  the  hills 

The  bright  sea  drags  them  under,  and  the  hills 

Beckon  them  up  into  the  deadly  air ; 

They  have  sharp  joys,  and  a  sure  end  of  them. 

But  he  who  loves  the  wind  is  like  a  man 

Who  loves  a  ghost,  and  by  a  loveliness 

Ever  unseen  is  haunted,  and  he  sees 

No  dewdrop  shaken  from  a  blade  of  grass, 

No  handle  lifted,  yet  she  comes  and  goes, 

And  breathes  beside  him.     And  the  man,  because 

Something,  he  knows,  is  nearer  than  his  breath 

To  bodily  life,  and  nearer  to  himself 

Than  his  own  soul,  loves  with  exceeding  fear. 

And  so  is  every  man  that  loves  the  wind. 

How  shall  a  man  be  quiet  in  his  soul 

When  a  more  restless  spirit  than  a  bird's 

Cries  to  him,  and  his  heart  answers  the  cry  ? 

Therefore  have  fear,  all  ye  who  love  the  wind. 

There  is  no  promise  in  the  voice  of  the  wind, 

It  is  a  seeking  and  a  pleading  voice 

That  wanders  asking  in  an  unknown  tongue 

Infinite  unimaginable  things. 

Shall  not  the  lovers  of  the  wind  become 

Even  as  the  wind  is,  gatherers  of  the  dust, 

Hunters  of  the  impossible,  like  men 

Who  go  by  night  into  the  woods  with  nets 

To  snare  the  shadow  of  the  moon  in  pools .'' 


83 


Hymn  to  Fire. 


Son  .of  God  and  man, 
When  the  world  began, 
First-born  of  love  and  hate, 
Where  was  thy  hid  state  ? 
Thou  bliss  by  God  denied, 
Till  the  human  pride 
Snatched  thee,  and  brought  down 
Heaven's  breath  for  his  own. 

Spectre  of  the  rose. 
When  thy  red  heart  grows 
Fierce,  and  thy  delight 
Makes  a  morn  of  night. 
Do  the  stars  grow  pale. 
Lest  thy  leapings  scale 
Heaven,  and  thou  again 
Harness  them  in  thy  train  ? 


8+ 


V. 

VARIATIONS  ON  AN  OLD  TUNE. 


Apology. 

Why  is  it  that  I  sing  no  songs  of  you, 
Now,  as  in  those  old  days  I  used  to  do  ? 
I  have  made  many  songs,  and  bitter  songs, 
Against  you,  I  have  done  you  many  wrongs 
In  verse ;  and  now,  when  you  and  I  can  sit 
By  the  same  fire,  and,  looking  into  it 
In  silence,  dream  without  unhappiness 
Each  his  own  dream  in  friendly  loneliness, 
I  sing  of  you  no  longer.     Still  I  find 
Your  shadow  in  all  the  corners  of  my  mind, 
And  in  my  heart  find  you ;  but  there,  alas. 
Though  I  search  every  cranny  where  it  was. 
My  art  I  find  not :  it  is  well :  my  art 
Knew  only  songs  for  an  unquiet  heart. 


87 


Arab  Love- Song. 

What  matters  it  to  me  if  the  rain  fall, 

Since  I  must  die  of  thirst  ?  Her  eyes  are  faint, 

They  faint  with  ardent  sleep,  faint  into  love  : 

Her  eyes  are  promises  she  will  not  keep. 

I  ask  no  more  ;  let  others  give  me  all, 

While  she  is  miser  of  her  beauty  :  all 

Is  nothing,  but  her  nothing  is  my  all. 

Have  I  not  loved  her  when  I  knew  not  love  ? 

Keep  far  from  me  that  bitter  knowledge  ;  nay. 

Why  should  I  die  ?  and  if  I  know  I  die. 

I  have  loved,  and  I  have  loved,  perhaps,  too  much ; 

If  to  have  loved  as  I  have  loved  be  sin, 

I  pray  that  God  may  never  pardon  it. 


Song :  after  Herrick. 

Dear  love,  let's  not  put  away 

Love  against  a  rainy  day ; 

You  are  careful,  and  would  hoard 

Some  of  that  which  can't  be  stored  ; 

For,  like  roses  which  are  born 

To  die  between  a  night  and  morn, 

Being  once  plucked,  being  once  worn 

So  the  rose  of  love's  delight 

Only  lasts  a  day  or  night ; 

Though  roses  die,  shall  there  not  be 

Next  morn  new  roses  on  the  tree  ? 


89 


Song. 

O  why  is  it  that  a  curl 
Or  the  eyelash  of  a  girl, 
Or  a  ribbon  from  her  hair, 
Or  a  glove  she  used  to  wear, 
Weighed  with  all  a  man  has  done, 
With  a  thought  or  with  a  throne, 
Drops  the  balance  like  a  stone  ? 

Antony  was  king  of  men, 
Cleopatra  was  a  queen, 
And  for  Cleopatra  he 
Flings  away  his  sovereignty. 
Yet  as  well  can  Kate  or  Nan 
Find,  as  Cleopatra  can, 
Antony  in  any  man. 


90 


The  Heart's  Toys. 

Heart  of  mine,  now  youth  is  over, 
Why  be  playing  still  at  lover  ? 
Comrade,  there's  no  use  protesting, 
Love  at  forty  is  but  jesting. 
Though  the  same  the  eternal  game  is, 
Love  at  twenty  not  the  same  is. 
Hearts  to  play  with  there  are  plenty 
When  the  heart's  at  one  and  twenty, 
But  if  one  and  forty  chooses. 
Who  consents  and  who  refuses  ^ 
Heart  of  mine,  lay  down  the  playthings 
As  in  childhood  we  would  lay  things 
When  our  fancies  had  outgrown  them, 
And  desert  them  and  disown  them. 
Yet  as  children  from  their  play-hours 
Save  and  store  for  workaday  hours 
Doll  or  toy  they  used  to  care  for. 
Heart  of  mine,  shall  we  not  spare  for 
Days  when  scarcely  we'll  remember 
Dancing  April  in  December, 
One  heart's  toy,  as  Meg  and  Moll  do  ? 
What  if  we  should  save  one  doll  too  ? 


9> 


Two  Love-Songs. 
I. 

I  do  not  know  if  your  eyes  are  green  or  grey 

Or  if  there  are  other  eyes  brighter  than  they ; 

They  have  looked  in  my  eyes ;  when  they  look  in  ray  eyes 

I  can  see 

One  thing,  and  a  thing  to  be  surely  the  death  of  me. 

If  I  had  been  born  a  blind  man  without  sight, 
That  sorrow  would  never  have  set  this  wrong  thing  right ; 
When  I  touched  your  hand  I  would  feel,  and  no  need  to  see, 
The  one  same  thing,  and  a  thing  the  death  of  me. 

Only  when  I  am  asleep  I  am  easy  in  mind, 
And  my  sleep  is  gone,  and  a  thing  I  cannot  find ; 
I  am  wishing  that  I  could  sleep  both  day  and  night 
In  a  bed  where  I  should  not  toss  from  left  to  right. 


9* 


II. 

O  woman  of  my  love,  I  am  walking  with  you  on  the  sand, 

And  the  moon's  white  on  the  sand  and  the  foam's  white  in 

the  sea ; 

And  I  am  thinking  my  own  thoughts,  and  your  hand  is  on 

my  hand, 

And  your  heart  thinks  by  my  side,  and  it's  not  thinking  of 

me. 

0  woman  of  my  love,  the  world  is  narrow  and  wide, 
And  I  wonder  which  is  the  lonelier  of  us  two  ? 

You  are  thinking  of  one  who  is  near  to  your  heart,  and  far 
from  your  side ; 

1  am  thinking  my  own  thoughts,  and  they  are  all  thoughts 
of  you. 


93 


Grey  Twilight. 

— Do  you  remember  that  long  twilight  ?  grey 

Unending  sand,  a  low  grey  sky,  a  wall 

Of  grey  low  cliffs,  the  sea  against  the  sand 

Flat,  coloured  like  the  sand,  white  at  the  edge, 

And  now  and  then  a  shouldering  wave  that  rose 

Long,  black,  like  a  ship's  hull  seen  sideways.     Grey 

As  the  monotonous  days  of  life,  when  each 

Copies  the  day  it  follows,  grey  and  still 

In  such  a  bleak  repose,  as  if  it  slept 

Tired  out  of  hope,  the  sand  lay  endlessly. 

We  walked  upon  the  sand,  and  heard  the  sea 

Whimpering,  in  a  little  lonely  voice, 

And  there  was  always  sand  and  sea  and  sky. 

Making  a  quietude  of  emptiness. 

Do  you  remember .? 

— Such  a  quietude 

As  fire  might  drowse  to,  when  its  ashes  burn. 

It  was  the  slumber  of  a  violent  life. 

It  filled  me  with  the  peace  of  energy. 

— It  filled  me  with  the  helplessness  of  things. 

Intolerable  days,  intolerable  hours. 

The  level,  endless,  dust-grey  sand  of  things  ; 

The  sand  slides  back  under  our  travelling  feet, 

Our  feet  labour,  and  there  is  still  the  sand 

Infinitely  before  us,  indefinitely 

Behind  us,  the  same  sand  and  sea  and  sky. 

94 


— I  was  content :  I  saw  no  emptiness ; 
The  blood  was  busy  in  my  veins ;  1  felt 
All  the  young  heat  and  colour  of  my  blood 
Fill  up  the  hour  with  joy  :  a  pause  of  life 
Spoke  to  me  in  the  greyness  of  the  hour. 
I  can  fill  every  hour  with  my  own  heat, 
And  colour  all  the  hours  of  life  with  joy. 

— You  ;  but  I  take  my  colour  from  the  hour, 
And  all  my  hours  of  life  are  like  this  sand, 
And  I  am  tired  of  treading  down  the  hours. 


95 


The  Caged  Bird. 

A  year  ago  I  asked  you  for  your  soul ; 
I  took  it  in  my  hands,  it  weighed  as  light 
As  any  swallow,  it  was  poised  for  flight, 
It  was  a  wandering  thing  without  a  goal. 
I  caged  it,  and  I  tended  it  ;  it  throve  ; 
Wise  ways  I  taught  it ;  it  forgot  to  fly  ; 
It  learnt  to  know  its  cage,  its  keeper  ;  I, 
Its  keeper,  taught  it  that  the  cage  was  love. 
And  now  I  take  my  bird  out  of  the  cage, 
It  flutters  not  a  feather,  looks  at  me 
Sadly,  without  desire,  without  surprise ; 
See,  I  have  tamed  it,  it  is  still  and  sage. 
It  has  not  strength  enough  for  liberty. 
It  does  not  even  hate  me  with  its  eyes. 


96 


An  Epilogue  to  Love. 
I.    . 

Love  now,  my  heart,  there  is  but  now  to  love ; 
Seek  nothing  more,  but  let  it  be  enough 
That  one  desire,  one  moment,  melts  in  yours. 
Hold  the  one  moment  fast ;  nothing  endures, 
And,  as  the  past  was,  shall  the  future  be  ; 
O  heart,  hold  fast  the  present.     Then  to  me 
My  heart :  What  is  the  present  ?     There  is  none. 
Has  not  the  sigh  after  the  kiss  begun 
The  future  .''  and  the  past  was  in  the  kiss. 
Then  to  my  heart  I  said  :  O  heart,  if  this 
Be  life,  then  what  is  love  ?     And  my  heart  said  : 
Desire  of  things  unborn  or  things  long  dead. 


97 


II. 


I  who  have  dreamed  of  happiness  now  dream 

Of  happiness  no  more.     If  the  extreme 

Desire  of  you  leave  over  some  poor  space 

To  fold  my  pain  into  a  happy  place, 

I  am  content ;  if  not,  I  am  content. 

Not  for  my  peace,  not  for  my  pleasure  sent, 

Who  have  no  rest  nor  any  hope  to  bring, 

0  you,  of  whom  I  know  not  anything. 
But  that  you  hold  me  and  I  hold  you  not, 
And  that  for  you,  in  vain,  I  have  forgot 

The  world  :  in  vain  :  you  are  the  world  ;  I  take 
My  foe  into  my  keeping  for  your  sake. 

1  who  have  dreamed  of  love  now  dream  no  more 
Of  love.     It  was  a  dream  I  dreamed  before 

I  knew  you.     Now  I  know  that  when  I  fold 

My  arms  about  you,  in  that  hour  I  hold 

A  thing  made  wonderful  with  flesh  and  blood ; 

No  more.     I  am  content.     It  is  not  good 

That  men  should  dream  by  daylight  :  let  them  keep 

Dreams  for  the  kind  forgetfulness  of  sleep. 

Clip  the  soul's  wings,  hold  down  the  heart,  forget : 

Yes,  without  dreams,  I  may  be  happy  yet. 


98 


III. 

Come  into  the  dim  forest  of  old  sleep  ; 

Wander  with  me,  and  I  will  lead  you  deep 

Through  paths  of  sun-warmed  grasses  and  chill  ferns, 

Into  the  shadow  where  a  green  flame  burns. 

Hark !  the  swift  rustle,  wings  among  the  leaves, 

The  curve  of  a  dark  sudden  flight,  that  leaves 

A  quiver  in  the  branches  ;  dusky  throats 

Sob  happily,  a  ripple  of  soft  notes 

Begins  to  soothe  the  silence  back  again. 

But  listen,  for  the  tiny  voice  of  rain 

Whimpers  among  the  pattering  leaves ;  they  cry 

With  easy,  shining  tears,  the  sun  will  dry 

Off^  their  sleek  faces  ;  and  the  earth  breathes  in 

The  breath  of  rain,  and  nimble  winds  begin 

To  shake  the  hoarded  odours  of  the  wood 

Out  like  a  spendthrift ;  and  the  air  is  good. 

And  kind,  and  sleepy.     Cannot  you  and  I 

Forget  to  not  be  friends  .''     This  is  July. 


99 


IV. 

I  have  loved  life  for  other  women's  sake, 

And  now  for  your  sake  fear  it.     Can  I  slake 

A  thirst  the  whole  world  cannot  satisfy  ? 

All  that  I  have  I  give,  but  what  am  I  ? 

You  have  desired,  you  have  desired  in  vain, 

Such  immortality  of  joy  and  pain 

As  mortal  hours  know  nought  of ;  you  have  sought 

The  spirit  of  life  in  all  things  ;  sense  and  thought 

Strain  after  sharp  delight,  or  drowse  upon 

The  swift  and  sky-enfolding  pinion 

Of  joy  that  flies  in  dreams  between  the  stars. 

You  have  loved  knowledge,  for  that  hand  unbars 

The  gates  of  closed  and  waiting  Edens  ;  praise, 

For  the  delicious  trouble  in  the  gaze 

Of  the  flushed  praiser  ;  power,  because  power  gives 

Life  to  your  life,  telling  you  that  it  lives. 

You  have  loved  love,  but  not  for  love's  sake,  nay. 

Loved  to  be  loved  ;  I,  loving  you  to-day. 

Know  that  you  love  my  love,  not  me ;  1  bring 

A  multitude  of  loves  for  offering, 

All  I  have  learnt  in  tears  and  ecstasies. 

All  my  life  loving  :  yet,  shall  this  suffice  ? 

Life  cries  at  all  your  senses,  calling  you 

With  many  voices  :  how  shall  you  be  true 

To  your  own  self  if  you  are  true  to  me  .? 

You  have  loved  love,  you  have  loved  liberty, 

And  not  to  love  ;  think,  do  you  gain  or  lose 

By  choosing  bondage  ?  love  is  bondage  :  choose  ! 


xoo 


v.. 

You  speak  to  me  as  to  an  enemy, 

And  your  warm  eyes  are  cold  only  to  me, 

And  your  kind  lips,  that  smile  on  all,  grow  stern 

Only  to  me,  and  if  by  chance  you  turn 

To  where  I  sit  and  see  you  and  are  dumb, 

A  deep  and  friendless  silence  seems  to  come 

Between  us  like  a  shadow,  and  you  look 

Into  my  face  as  into  some  old  book. 

Yet  will  a  stillness  deeper  than  delight, 

The  happy  pain  of  joy  grown  infinite. 

Knowing  itself  no  more  but  as  some  pain 

Too  intimate  for  pleasure,  softly  rain 

Into  your  soul  like  morning,  if  I  take 

Your  hand  in  mine ;  and  suddenly  you  awake, 

Out  of  a  loneliness  grown  dear  and  strange. 

And  your  deep  quiet  breathing  seems  to  change. 

Like  the  still  water  when  it  feels  the  wind  ; 

And,  as  earth  thrills  when  night's  last  clouds  are  thinned, 

A  slow  new  wonder  dawns  into  your  face, 

And  little  sighs  breathe  for  a  little  space 

Out  of  your  breast  like  little  smiles  of  sound, 

Because,  after  the  waiting,  we  have  found 

Each  other  ;  and  if  this  be  love,  I  know 

No  more  than  you  ;  yet,  if  it  be  not  so. 

There  is  a  good  thing  in  the  world,  above 

The  best  that  I  have  ever  dreamed  of  love. 


lOI 


VI. 


I  have  not  loved  love,  nor  sought  happiness, 

I  have  loved  every  passionate  distress. 

And  the  adoration  of  sharp  fear,  and  hate 

For  love's  sake,  and  what  agonies  await 

The  unassuaged  fulfilment  of  desire 

Not  eased  in  the  having  ;  I  have  sought  to  tire 

The  fretting  of  the  flesh  grown  sad  with  thought, 

And  restless  with  remembering ;  I  have  sought 

Forgetful ness,  and  rest,  and  liberty. 

And  bondage.     And  all  these  have  come  to  me, 

And  all  these  I  have  suffered,  and  all  these 

Have  brought  no  joy,  and  left  me  little  ease. 

Passionate  and  untender,  I  need  words 

Hard  as  bright  jewels,  bright  and  swift  as  birds. 

If  I  but  name  you,  miracle  in  flesh  ; 

O  cool,  for  the  cool  winds  are  not  more  fresh. 

Blowing  from  the  sea  at  twilight ;  flame  of  the  deep 

Roots  of  the  earth,  and  sleepy  with  the  sleep 

Rustling  in  leafy  trees  and  murmuring 

In  moonlight-shadowed  woods  when  no  birds  sing  ; 

Young  every  day,  forgetting  by  the  way 

Yesterday's  memories  with  yesterday. 

So  making  the  world  new  again,  and  then 

Forgetting,  and  so  making  it  again. 

Make  a  new  world  for  me,  or  let  me  come 

Into  your  world,  and  let  it  be  a  home 

For  my  unrest,  liberty  from  my  dreams, 

A  place  of  winds  and  sunlight  and  cool  streams 

For  my  tired  thought  to  drowse  in.     But  no  love, 

1 02 


No  love  !     Earth's  loveliest  paradise  would  prove 

The  Eden  of  the  snake  and  that  wise  tree 

Whose  wisdom  was  our  loss  of  liberty, 

If  love,  a  bitterer  wisdom,  spoilt  the  taste 

Of  every  tree  that  God  the  gardener  placed 

About  our  path  in  the  garden,  saving  one. 

Make  a  new  world  for  me ;  I  need  the  sun. 

The  sap  of  the  earth,  the  deep  breath  of  the  wind. 

The  voices  of  the  sea :  these  have  not  sinned. 

Nor  known  mortality  ;  and  these  to  you 

Are  of  your  blood  :  I  would  inherit  too 

That  kingdom,  liberal  of  its  delight, 

Unageing.     I  would  love  the  day  and  night, 

As  you  do ;  I  would  love  for  its  own  sake 

Beauty,  no  longer  with  the  jealous  ache 

Of  old  desire,  but  freely  as  the  air. 

That  breathes  about  all  beauty  everywhere. 

Only,  no  love,  not  that  sweet  poison,  brewed 

From  hemlock  roots  of  kindness,  that  has  strewed 

The  world  with  death,  since,  on  Troy's  "  topless  towers," 

Helen  with  deathless  hands  put  back  the  hours. 

I  have  not  loved  love  ;  let  me  be ;  O  give 

Not  love,  but  life :  I  would  not  love,  but  live  ! 


103 


VII. 

Your  eyes  are  empty  streets  where  men  have  passed. 

I  search  in  vain  :  there  is  no  shadow  cast 

Upon  their  silence  ;  yet  a  stealthy  thing 

Lurks  in  my  heart  watching  and  listening. 

What  do  I  seek  ?  what  is  there  I  should  find  ? 

Only  a  little  dust  upon  the  wind, 

Where  many  feet  have  trodden :  let  me  give 

Dreams  to  the  night,  and  be  content  to  live ! 

O,  when  you  droop  into  my  arms,  and  die 

Into  delight  as  into  sleep,  and  lie 

Enfolded  deeper  than  a  dream  in  sleep. 

Smiling  with  little  sleepy  smiles,  that  creep 

About  the  corners  of  your  mouth,  and  stir 

Your  waking  eyelids  like  a  messenger, 

Warm  from  the  heart ;  when  I  have  seen  your  soul 

Swoon  to  intense  oblivion,  and  your  whole 

Body,  forgotten  of  the  soul,  lie  weak 

And  fluttering,  and  have  feared  to  touch  your  cheek 

Lest  you  should  fade  into  a  vaporous  wreath ; 

When  I  have  seen  the  soul  come  back,  and  breathe 

A  mortal  air,  and  with  a  wild  surprise ; 

Endured  the  awful  questioning  of  eyes 

Awakened  out  of  hell  or  heaven,  and  bowed 

My  head  in  an  exultant  silence,  loud 

With  triumphing  voices  out  of  hell  or  heaven ; 

0  my  desire,  I  have  beheld  the  seven 
Heavens  opened,  and  forgotten  if  time  be ; 

1  have  been  drunken  with  an  ecstasy 


104 


Older  than  time ;  then,  then  that  stealthy  thing, 
Coiled  in  my  heart,  begins  awakening 
The  ignoble  voices,  and  I  listen  :  why  ? 
Why  ?  because  you  are  you,  and  I  am  I. 


los 


VIII. 

Why  do  I  fear  your  past  as  if  it  stole 

Some  peace  from  the  possession  of  my  soul  ? 

Is  not  to-day  enough  ?     No,  not  enough. 

You  love  me :  can  I  ask  for  more  than  love  ^ 

Yes,  more  than  love.     What  then  ?     The  past.     The  past 

Is  dead,  but  we,  who  live,  have  met  at  last ; 

I  have  forgotten  all  the  rest ;  forget. 

And  let  our  lives  begin  the  day  we  met. 

No  :  I  remember.     And  if  so  ?     I  take 

Your  past  with  you,  in  silence,  for  your  sake ; 

Love  as  I  love,  take  mine,  be  satisfied. 

But  you  have  loved  ?     I  dreamed,  and  all  dreams  died. 

I  would  know  all.     Why  then  this  vanity 

To  count  the  dead  and  say,  these  died  for  me  ? 

No,  not  for  me  :  they  passed,  they  had  their  day. 

Cried  at  your  heart,  were  welcomed,  went  their  way ; 

Forgotten  ^  but  their  names,  scrawled  over,  rest 

Inscribed  on  your  heart's  liberal  palimpsest ; 

I  read  the  names  there  still.     So  do  not  I ; 

I  read  your  eyes,  that  hate  me,  doubt  me :  why .? 

Are  not  my  arms  around  you,  and  my  heart 

Warm  to  your  hand,  and  are  we  not  apart, 

Exiles  of  love,  in  a  kind  banishment .'' 

Am  I  not  yours,  and  am  I  not  content .? 

1  have  given  you  all  I  have ;  can  I  unlive 

My  life,  or  is  there  more  that  I  can  give  ^ 

I  take  you  :  will  you  still  not  take  me .''  still 

You  ask,  refuse,  withhold  ^     Yes.     As  you  will ! 


1 06 


A  Song  against  Love. 


There  is  a  thing  in  the  world  that  has  been  since  the  world 

began  : 

The  hatred  of  man  for  woman,  the  hatred  of  woman  for 

man. 

When  shall  this  thing  be  ended  ?     When  love  ends,  hatred 

ends. 

For  love  is  a  chain  between  foes,   and  love   is   a   sword 

between  friends. 

Shall  there  never  be  love  without  hatred  ?     Not  since  the 

world  began. 

Until  man  teach  honour  to  woman,  and  woman  teach  pity 

to  man. 

O  that  a  man  might  live  his  life  for  a  little  tide 

Without  this  rage  in  his  heart,  and  without  this  foe  at  his 

side ! 

He  could  eat  and  sleep  and  be  merry  and  forget,  he  could 

live  well  enough. 

Were  it  not  for  this  thing  that  remembers  and  hates,  and 

that  hurts  and  is  love. 

But  peace  has  not  been  in  the  world  since  love  and  the 

world  began, 

For   the   man    remembers    the   woman,   and    the   woman 

remembers  the  man. 


107 


VI. 

MARY  IN  BETHLEHEM 
A  NATIVITY. 


Mary  in  Bethlehem  :  A  Nativity, 


Mary.  The  Three  Shepherds. 

Joseph.  The  Three  Kings. 

The  Scene  represents  the  Stable  in  Bethlehem.     Mary  has 
just  awakened,  and  is  bending  over  the  manger  where  the  Child 
lies  asleep.     Joseph  lies  asleep  on  the  ground, 

Mary. 

Is  it  the  morning  ?     I  am  cold. 
Look  out  and  tell  me  if  the  moon 
Has  led  the  stars  into  their  fold  ; 
Then  shut  the  door  and  make  it  fast. 

[Joseph  rises^  goes  to  the  door^  and  looks  out, 

Joseph. 

The  night  is  blue,  with  stars  of  gold  ; 
The  middle  watch  of  night  is  past ; 
See  now,  it  will  be  morning  soon  ! 
Yet  there  is  time  enough  for  sleep. 

\He  shuts  the  door,  and  stands  near  the  manger. 

Mary. 

The  child  is  sleeping,  I  have  slept. 
And  in  my  dream  I  think  I  wept ; 
I  will  not  sleep  again  and  weep. 

Joseph. 

Tell  me  the  dream. 

Ill 


Mary. 

I  seemed  to  see 

A  mighty  city,  as  it  were 

The  city  of  Jerusalem  ; 

And  all  the  folk  ran  to  and  fro, 

Shouting,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 

Three  woeful  figures,  and  the  three 

Bore  each  a  cross  he  could  not  bear ; 

And  as  I  looked  I  seemed  to  know 

The  face  of  one  of  them,  and  then 

Such  bitter  tears  began  to  flow 

That  I  awakened,  and  in  fear 

Felt  for  my  child,  and  he  was  here, 

And  I  was  comforted  again. 

Joseph. 

O  Mary,  have  no  fear  at  all ; 
God  is  our  father,  and  shall  keep 
Our  feet,  whether  we  wake  or  sleep. 
Lie  down  again,  and  lay  your  head 
Here,  where  the  careful  ox  has  fed 
That  stands  in  sleep  beside  his  stall. 

[He  lies  down  again  and  sleeps. 

Mary. 

Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  ! 

It  was  an  angel,  and  I  said 

The  words  I  feared  to  understand. 

What  was  it  when  upon  my  bed 

Suddenly  the  mild  glory  poured, 

And  in  the  glory  was  a  voice 

Bidding  my  soul  greatly  rejoice, 

112 


Because  the  Lord  God  was  at  hand  ? 

0  child  of  mine,  marvellously 
Born  of  the  shadow  of  God,  can  this 
Be  for  no  great  design  of  his 

Who  sits  upon  the  flaming  sun 
And  sets  his  feet  upon  the  sea  ? 
If  I  but  knew  what  he  decreed, 
Before  this  body  of  mine  was  made 
To  be  the  mother  of  his  son, 
Then  were  I  satisfied  indeed  ; 
But  now  the  angels  come  no  more  ; 

1  wait  and  dream  and  am  afraid. 

[^rhere  is  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and ]os^pn  awakens. 

Joseph. 

There  is  a  knocking  at  the  door. 

[He  opens  the  door ;  />^^  Three  Shepherds  come  in. 

First  Shepherd. 

Sir,  if  a  newborn  child  be  here 

That  in  a  manger  lies. 

We  pray  you  that  you  let  us  near 

To  see  him  with  our  eyes. 

Joseph. 

Good  shepherds,  it  is  early  morn  ; 

But  come  ;  his  mother  wakes  ;  come  in  ; 

There  was  no  housing  in  the  inn, 

Beside  a  manger  he  was  born. 

And  there  in  swaddling  clothes  he  lies. 

113  H 


Second  Shepherd. 

O  brother  shepherds,  we  have  found 

The  Saviour  as  they  said  ; 

Let  us  kneel  down  upon  the  ground 

And  pray  about  his  bed. 

[The  Shepherds  kneel. 

Mary. 

Shepherds,  good  shepherds,  tell  me  why 

You  come  about  the  break  of  day. 

And  kneel  before  my  child,  and  pray. 

As  if  the  stable  where  we  lie 

Were  holy,  or  the  Lord  were  nigh. 

[The  Shepherds  rise. 

Third  Shepherd. 

We  shepherds  watched  our  flocks  by  night, 

And  lo,  an  angel  made 

A  glory  of  exceeding  light, 

And  we  were  sore  afraid. 

Then  said  the  angel  :  Shepherds  all. 
Fear  not ;  I  bring  from  heaven 
Good  tidings  of  great  joy,  which  shall 
Be  to  all  people  given. 

For  unto  you  is  born  this  day 

A  Saviour,  and  his  name 

Is  Christ  the  Lord  ;  go  ye  your  way 

With  haste  to  Bethlehem. 

114 


There,  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes  he  lies, 

A  nianger  for  his  sleep. 

There  was  a  singing  in  the  skies. 

And  we  forgot  our  sheep. 

Mary. 

0  shepherds,  kneel  if  ye  will  kneel ; 

1  know  not  what  these  tidings  be, 
But  my  heart  kneels,  even  as  ye. 
Then  go  your  way,  and  may  the  peace 
Of  God  be  on  us  all. 

[T/^^  Shepherds  one  after  another  bow  before  the 

Child^  and  go  out. 
Ifeel 
The  wonder  growing  in  my  side. 

Joseph. 

Mary,  what  tidings  then  are  these. 
That  have  but  come  to  shepherd  folk, 
Poor  men  that  know  not  anything  } 
Think  you  it  was  God's  angel  spoke  ^ 
Shall  these  find  God  out,  if  he  hide 
His  will  from  Herod,  who  is  king  ? 

Mary. 

That  which  God  wills  he  wills  ;  if  he 
Have  need  of  such  a  messenger. 
Then  would  he  send  to  us  a  king. 

[There  is  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  the  Three 

Kings  come  in. 

"5 


Caspar. 

Gate  of  light,  window  of  the  sky, 

And  mother  of  the  dawn,  I  bring 

A  tribute  of  Arabian  myrrh 

Out  of  the  fragrant  East,  where  I 

Talk  with  the  stars,  and  am  a  king. 


Melchior. 

Garden  of  spices,  lily  of  fire, 
Flame  of  sweet  smoke,  I  am  a  king, 
And  for  your  heavenly  child  I  bring 
The  East's  whole  odours  that  enfold 
The  earth  for  a  burnt  offering. 


[//<?  gives  myrrh. 


\_He  gives  frankincense. 


Balthasar. 

I  am  a  king,  and  African  ; 

I  bring,  out  of  the  dark  earth,  gold, 

Which  is  the  light  of  my  desire. 

Our  gold  and  myrrh  and  frankincense 

Take,  Mother  of  the  King  of  Man. 


Joseph. 

My  lords,  we  are  but  humble  men. 

Mary. 

O  kings,  I  am  your  handmaiden. 

Have  ye  met  shepherds  going  hence 

Into  the  valley  to  their  fold .'' 

ii6 


\He  gives  gold. 


Caspar. 

The  angel  shepherd  of  a  star 
While  we  in  paths  of  heaven  trod 
Called  to  us  in  the  East  afar 
And  led  our  feet  to  Bethlehem  : 
The  shepherd  of  the  flock  of  God. 

Mary. 

Have  the  stars  speech,  that  they  can  bring 
Your  feet  to  this  poor  manger-bed  ? 

Melchior. 

The  stars  are  wise  :  we  talk  with  them  ; 

A  star  spoke  out  of  heaven,  and  said  : 

Follow,  and  I  will  bring  you  where 

A  king,  who  is  the  King  of  Kings, 

Has  built  his  throne.    His  throne  we  see. 

Mary. 

Where  is  this  throne .?  and  where  is  he  ? 

Balthasar. 

This  is  the  King  of  Kings,  he  lies 
Within  a  lowly  manger-bed, 
Whose  name  was  written  in  the  skies. 
Bow  down  before  the  King  of  Kings, 
For  we  have  seen  the  face  of  him 
Before  whose  face  the  burning  eyes 
Of  the  flame-hearted  stars  grow  dim. 
Veiling  with  unastonished  wings 
Their  faces  from  the  face  of  him 
Whose  name  was  written  in  the  skies. 

\_The  Three  Kings  knee/  before  the  Child  ^  and  go  out. 
117 


Joseph. 

Mary,  the  child  shall  be  a  king. 


Mary. 

Blessed  among  all  women,  yea, 

I  have  been  chosen  for  this  thing. 

Now  I  have  waited  long  enough, 

I  do  not  hope  nor  am  afraid, 

I  do  not  look  upon  the  way, 

I  have  been  chosen  by  God's  love. 

Now  is  this  body,  that  was  made 

Of  sinful  and  of  mortal  clay. 

In  the  warm  love  of  God  arrayed. 

And  I  am  his,  and  he  is  mine ; 

And  now  I  know  that  I  have  known 

God,  all  of  God,  and  God  alone, 

And  that  the  son  of  God  must  be 

As  God  is,  human  yet  divine, 

God  in  the  Godhead,  man  in  me. 

O,  when  I  hold  my  little  child 

Against  my  heart  and  stoop  to  see 

If  he  has  waked  from  sleep  and  smiled, 

I  carry  an  immortal  load  ; 

My  child,  no  less  my  child  to  me 

Because  I  know  my  child  is  God. 


[i/(?  goes  aside. 


ii8 


"  The  Fool  of  the  World  "  was  acted 
by  the  New  Stage  Club  at  the  Victoria 
Hally  Bayswater^  on  April  5,  igo6. 

Some  of  the  shorter  poems  in  this  volume 
are  printed  separately  in  *'  A  Book  of 
Twenty  Songs"  published  by  Messrs. 
J.  M.  Dent  and  Co. 


By         eime  Writer. 

Pc         (Collected  edition  in  two  volumes).      1902. 

The  Symbolist  Movement  in  Literature.      1899. 

Plays,  Acting,  and  Music.      1903. 

Cities.      1903. 

Studies  in  Prose  and  Verse.      1904. 

A  Book  of  Twenty  Songs.     1905. 

Spiritual  Adventures.     1905. 

Studies  in  Seven  Arts.     1906. 


Printed  by  Ballantyne  &  Co.  Limited 
Tavistock  Street,  London 


